The Last Days
by dancewithdragons
Summary: The final days of the Baratheon empire, through the eyes of the kings and queens that exacted them. AU in which Sansa and Stannis relinquish the Iron Throne to the Targaryen forces. (Rated T/Bear with me it's not god awful I promise)
1. Aegon

He watched her as she trekked the long hallway, making for the throne room. Her long auburn hair cascaded past her shoulders like fire. It licked at the golden gown that left her shoulders bare, her alabaster skin shining in the golden light. She looked like the very entity of _delicacy_.

The people parted for her like she were a god, and she didn't stop until she reached the center of the floor. When she glanced his way, eyes heavy and lips parted- just so- his chest felt tight. She looked away before he could, her curls forming a halo around her before they settled again. He should hate her for the disdain she held in those winter-blue eyes, but he couldn't.

"Lady Sansa Baratheon," he called, for all the court to hear, "you are brought before the court to answer for your crimes."

She said nothing, only inclined her head. She wore the sigil of her house proudly, a crowned rearing golden stag on a field of onyx, engulfed in a flaming heart.

He shifted uncomfortable in his seat. "You say nothing, my lady? You do not deny your guiltiness?"

"On the contrary, my lord, I deny my guiltiness very much." Her words were ice and iron, and her eyes were as much as well. "I have been nothing if not goodly to my people, and am their true queen. There is no crime in that."

Beside him was a heavy chortle. Daenerys rose from the Iron Throne and swaggered down the steps with her arms crossed over her painted leather vest. "You could be no_ true queen_, no more than a milkmaid could be a lady," said his wife, with a fire in her tone of voice that was undeniable. "Your husband's brother _usurped_ the throne from the Targaryens, your claim weak. We have come and conquered what is ours by the right of blood, what was stolen from us by the Baratheons. By _you_."

The lady feigned silence once more, looking away. There was no questioning the anger that the _khaleesi_ had risen in her. "If you do not deny your crimes, Lady Sansa, then I fear it is my duty to charge you with treason to the crown, and sentence you to death."

"By fire!" Dany's men cried from behind. His silver queen smiled victoriously and nodded in agreement.

The red lady whispered something, appearing to be in a daze. "What was that?" Daenerys inquired.

Lady Sansa looked up, her face stoned, paled. She only spoke when one of the Dothraki hit her, and the words rang for the whole court to hear.

"Death by fire," she said softly, reminiscently, "is the purest of deaths."


	2. Sansa

The people cried as she turned from the false king and made her way back to the black cells, where Stannis would await her. They had loved her, like she always wanted, since she was but a child. _I am a child yet, dead before I even birthed one of mine own_.

Her guards were kind, their grip gentle as they escorted her from court. The cackles of the silver queen resonated behind her. _She thinks she has won, then let her. What is there to win in the game of thrones, save death and deceit_? It was almost a mercy, being put to death. She would not have to know the burden of ruling, or rather no more than she already had.

They lead her down the staircases and through the tunnels, and when they finally reached the cell they unclasped her cloak and helped her shimmy from her fine gown. She would need it to be pristine, so she could wear it when the day came for her sentence to be exacted.

"My lady," one of the guards said, handing her a roughly spun brown dress. She thanked him and pulled it on with ease. It was warm and thick, covering her from collar to toe.

Once changed, they opened the door to her cell, locking it once she'd entered.

Her eyes adjusted to the dark quickly, and soon she found her husband's form, sitting in the corner atop the cotton bedding. "My king," she greeted, kneeling at his side.

His eyes were dark when they glanced upwards. "So they have sentenced you to death," he replied. Was it pain in his voice? Or anger? "Just as well. They couldn't very well leave a traitor alive. You've escaped with such mercy before, it would be unfair to do so again."

The words stung. She had never been a traitor. She'd never shared traitor's blood._ He's hurt_, she thought, _he's just hurt_. "I'm sure we will have a date soon," she told him, resting her head on the cold stone wall. _A date for death_.

His hand reached hers, grabbing it, cradling it. "Soon," he agreed.

They sat like that for some time, hand in hand, cloaked in shadow. They had risen, and now was their fall. It was the bitter glory of being kings and queens, inescapable even by those most beloved.

She thought of her father in those final few days. He had been brave, honorable, cherished by all, yet he had fallen from grace as well. She also recalled a certain mockingbird. _After all these years, he is right. Life is not a song_.


	3. Stannis

The judgement day had come and passed, and now was the time for exaction.

He was weak, tired, starving. Whatever food would come he gave to his young wife, who was frail and withering even with the extra rations. Her bright curls were dull now, and her skin was sallow under her eyes. He had only ever seen her as pristine and full, healthy. To look upon her now was more painful than what was to come in the following hours.

The thundering footsteps of their guards came, clicking heavily against the stone floors. Their long red-and-black cloaks swished back and forth as they swaggered. The door opened, the light from a pair of torches flooding their dank cell. "It is time, my lord," one said. The other offered his hands, full of Stannis's fine clothes.

"And where are _my_ clothes?" Inquired the small woman behind him, his queen, his - begrudgingly to admit - lady love. She rose from her seat on the cotton bedding and held her clasped hands at her lap, waiting.

The guards looked at her sympathetically, and he knew all too well what was happening. Her hands flew to her mouth and a choked sob escaped her. "No," she said firmly, shaking her head. "I will not allow it. They cannot!"

"There is nothing they cannot do," Stannis told her, grabbing her hand. His thumb swirled on the back of it, easing her in the only way he knew how. "The dragons will not heed to a stag."

Her weeping echoed in his mind as he washed himself and donned his garb. It fit loosely now, hanging low on his hollow frame. The cloak of black blazon with the golden stag weighed him down worse than any crown had. "I am ready," he told the men, who nodded and escorted him away from the cells.

When they reached the hall, he gasped. The light was so overwhelming, so absolute. He hadn't seen the sun in weeks and it stung his eyes until they watered. Men and women crowded the way to the courtyard, tears in their eyes as they reached out and blessed him as he passed. _Your prayers will do me no good now,_ he thought sullenly when the screeching of the dragons grew nearer. He had first thought it cruel to burn he an his queen separately, but it would be a mercy on Sansa, he realized. She would not have to see him succumb to fire, succumb to the anger of the silver whore and her pretender husband.

He took in the sight of the beasts, swirling overhead, once he'd made it outside. Gold and green and onyx black, each bigger than the next. The gold screamed and perched atop of the Red Keep, the green landed beside its master, the white haired boy. The black kept soaring, eyeing him like it knew the objective ahead.

He was thrown to the feet of his usurpers. "Stannis Baratheon, today is the day you die," called the silver whore, her violet eyes glimmering with anger and pleasure all at once. "You have been stripped of your title as Lord of Dragonstone, and henceforth will be written in the histories as a usurper and a fraud." He said nothing- why would he? Appeasing her would offer him no mercy.

The whore took it as a slight and grimaced. "Ser Osmyn, chain him to the pyre," she said.

The knight, if he could be called as much, did as he was told. Irons were clasped around his ankles and wrists, and a large collar of steel around his neck. He was bound before his own subjects, those he ruled over, to a pyre of twigs and branches, like some common witch.

"Do you have any last words?" The false Targaryen asked of him, but his resolve remained.

He had no last words, not even as the black dragon screeched and clawed at the red stone of the keep beside them. He had no last words; but of last thoughts he had many. Last regrets, even more. He thought of Robert, of Renly. Of his long gone mother and father. He thought of his own daughter, a slave and ever-living servant of the gods since her death in the long winter. He thought of his first wife, his Selyse, who was loyal if nothing else. Her death was not long after Shireen's, the gods bless her. A mother should never outlive her children, or so Sansa had said.

_Sansa_... the name made his iron resolve weaken. She was a child, a beaten and scarred child, who was never meant to rule anything. Sweet Sansa, who made even Stannis falter. He could almost feel her tears on his own cheeks, could almost hear her screams as she called out for him in the black cell.

The flames engulfed him with ease and he screeched as loud as the dragons. _Death by fire_, he thought over and over, until he could no longer think. _Death by fire, death by fire, death by fire_.


	4. Daenerys

She watched victoriously as the usurper perished to Drogon's mighty black flames. He screamed, just like she wanted. _Even cold, hard stags can burn_, she thought as his cloak crisped away and his screeching ended.

Her gaze fell over her people, who stared at the ashes of Stannis Baratheon with water in their eyes. _Why are they sad? I have freed them, I have finally taken back my throne! With fire and blood, I have conquered_! It angered her. Why did they love a sullen usurper over their true and faithful queen?

She looked up to her husband, her nephew Aegon, and frowned. "Summon Sansa Baratheon," she told her Dothraki men. She wanted this done with, wanted her subjects to forget the false king and queen.

The young girl was donned in the same golden gown and cloak with her sigil emblazon that she'd worn to hear her sentence, only now it was loose and saggy, her skin lack of luster and her long red curls dull. She bowed before the people and knelt beside the ashes of her dead king. Daenerys watched her with hard eyes. They were nearly of an age, and the girl had been so pretty, so beloved by the people. Mayhaps they might have been friends in another life, but all Dany could see now was a thief, a pretend queen who held her head too high.

"Chain her," commanded the silver queen.

The people began to protest, to scream and throw mud pies at the guards, but when the lady Sansa raised a single hand they all stopped. To have such power over them, even in her last minutes... it was impressive as well as infuriating. They never heeded Dany as so.

Ser Osmyn shackled Sansa Baratheon, and the whole of King's Landing watched as she braved her fate. "Drogon!" cried Dany, "_Dacarys!_"

In truth, she expected to feel more power after the pretend king and queen had perished, but she felt no more the true queen than she ever had before. "Clean this mess," she ordered the maids that stood in the corner of the courtyard.

"Send Stannis Baratheon's ashes to Storm's End, and those of Sansa Stark to Winterfell," Aegon called to the maids. She looked back at him, fire ablaze in her violet eyes. "They may have been usurpers, but they were not inhuman. They will be buried in their homes, and I'll hear not more on the matter."

Her husband left her with a sweep of his black-and-crimson cloak, and so did the smallfolk. And then it was just Dany, watching as her enemies were swept into jars. She wanted to feel glorious, delighted, but all she could feel now was ash in her mouth.

_It was right_, she reminded herself, _justice_.

She went to the throne room and ascended the Iron Throne, feeling the cool kiss of the iron on her pale white skin. She had done it, she finally had done it. With fire and blood,_ fire and blood_.


End file.
